Gemotions

The coffee cup shook in Clara’s hand, sloshing dark liquid onto the table. The legal document, printed in crisp black ink, lay open before her. Finch. The email had arrived an hour ago, but the content still had her reeling. Her short story, “Beneath the Whispering Pines,” mirrored almost verbatim sections of Finch’s latest bestseller.

She’d spent years studying his prose, devouring his interviews, dissecting his techniques. She thought she understood his creative process; she'd wanted to *be* him. Now, she felt a peculiar emptiness, a hollowness in her chest. Everything she believed in felt upended. She stared at the window, the familiar cityscape suddenly foreign, the world's colors appearing sharper, crisper.

Her hands felt ice-cold. She got up, pacing. It felt like she was watching a movie of her own life; each movement detached from her core self. A dizzying sensation overcame her; the world seemed to spin.